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　　ROLAND'S DEATH.

　　When all the French lay dead upon the field except Roland and the Archbishop Turpin, Roland gathered together the bodies of his dead comrades, the peers, that they might receive the archbishop's blessing. He then fell fainting from grief, and aroused himself to find the archbishop dead also.

　　Rollánd now feels his death is drawing nigh:

　　From both his ears the brain is oozing fast.

　　For all his peers he prays that God may call

　　Their souls to him; to the Angel Gabriel

　　He recommends his spirit. In one hand

　　He takes the olifant, that no reproach

　　May rest upon him; in the other grasps

　　Durendal, his good sword. Forward he goes,

　　Far as an arblast sends a shaft, across

　　A new-tilled ground and toward the land of Spain.

　　Upon a hill, beneath two lofty trees,

　　Four terraces of marble spread;—he falls

　　Prone fainting on the green, for death draws near.

　　Aoi.

　　High are the mounts, and lofty are the trees.

　　Four terraces are there, of marble bright:

　　There Count Rollánd lies senseless on the grass.

　　Him at this moment spies a Saracen

　　Who lies among the corpses, feigning death,

　　His face and body all besmeared with blood.

　　Sudden he rises to his feet, and bounds

　　Upon the baron. Handsome, brave, and strong

　　He was, but from his pride sprang mortal rage.

　　He seized the body of Rollánd, and grasped

　　His arms, exclaiming thus: "Here vanquished Carle's

　　Great nephew lies! This sword to Araby

　　I'll bear." He drew it; this aroused the count.

　　Aoi.

　　Rollánd perceived an alien hand would rob

　　Him of his sword; his eyes he oped; one word

　　He spoke: "I trow, not one of us art thou!"

　　Then with his olifant from which he parts

　　Never, he smites the golden studded helm,

　　Crushing the steel, the head, the bones; both eyes

　　Are from their sockets beaten out—o'erthrown

　　Dead at the baron's feet he falls;—"O wretch,"

　　He cries, "how durst thou, or for good or ill,

　　Lay hands upon Rollánd? Who hears of this

　　Will call thee fool. Mine olifant is cleft,

　　Its gems and gold all scattered by the blow."

　　Aoi.

　　Now feels Rollánd that death is near at hand

　　And struggles up with all his force; his face

　　Grows livid; Durendal, his naked sword,

　　He holds; beside him rises a gray rock

　　On which he strikes ten mighty blows through grief

　　And rage. The steel but grinds; it breaks not, nor

　　Is notched; then cried the count: "Saint Mary, help!

　　O Durendal! Good sword! ill starred art thou!

　　Though we two part, I care not less for thee.

　　What victories together thou and I

　　Have gained, what kingdoms conquered, which now holds

　　White-bearded Carle! No coward's hand shall grasp

　　Thy hilt: a valiant knight has borne thee long,

　　Such as none shall e'er bear in France the Free!"

　　Aoi.

　　Rollánd smites hard the rock of Sardonix;

　　The steel but grinds, it breaks not, nor grows blunt;

　　Then seeing that he cannot break his sword,

　　Thus to himself he mourns for Durendal:

　　"O good my sword, how bright and pure! Against

　　The sun what flashing light thy blade reflects!

　　When Carle passed through the valley of Moriane,

　　The God of Heaven by his Angel sent

　　Command that he should give thee to a count,

　　A valiant captain; it was then the great

　　And gentle king did gird thee to my side.

　　With thee I won for him Anjou—Bretaigne;

　　For him with thee I won Poitou, le Maine

　　And Normandie the free; I won Provence

　　And Aquitaine, and Lumbardie, and all

　　The Romanie; I won for him Baviere,

　　All Flandre—Buguerie—all Puillanie,

　　Costentinnoble which allegiance paid,

　　And Saxonie submitted to his power;

　　For him I won Escoce and Galle, Irlande,

　　And Engleterre he made his royal seat;

　　With thee I conquered all the lands and realms

　　Which Carle, the hoary-bearded monarch, rules.

　　Now for this sword I mourn. . . . Far better die

　　Than in the hands of pagans let it fall!

　　May God, Our Father, save sweet France this shame!"

　　Aoi.

　　Upon the gray rock mightily he smites,

　　Shattering it more than I can tell; the sword

　　But grinds. It breaks not—nor receives a notch,

　　And upward springs more dazzling in the air.

　　When sees the Count Rollánd his sword can never break,

　　Softly within himself its fate he mourns:

　　"O Durendal, how fair and holy thou!

　　In thy gold-hilt are relics rare; a tooth

　　Of great Saint Pierre—some blood of Saint Basile,

　　A lock of hair of Monseigneur Saint Denis,

　　A fragment of the robe of Sainte-Marie.

　　It is not right that pagans should own thee;

　　By Christian hand alone be held. Vast realms

　　I shall have conquered once that now are ruled

　　By Carle, the king with beard all blossom-white,

　　And by them made great emperor and lord.

　　May thou ne'er fall into a cowardly hand."

　　Aoi.

　　The Count Rollánd feels through his limbs the grasp

　　Of death, and from his head ev'n to his heart

　　A mortal chill descends. Unto a pine

　　He hastens, and falls stretched upon the grass.

　　Beneath him lie his sword and olifant,

　　And toward the Heathen land he turns his head,

　　That Carle and all his knightly host may say:

　　"The gentle count a conqueror has died. . . ."

　　Then asking pardon for his sins, or great

　　Or small, he offers up his glove to God.

　　Aoi.

　　The Count Rollánd feels now his end approach.

　　Against a pointed rock, and facing Spain,

　　He lies. Three times he beats his breast, and says:

　　"Mea culpa! Oh, my God, may through thy grace,

　　Be pardoned all my sins, or great or small,

　　Until this hour committed since my birth!"

　　Then his right glove he offers up to God,

　　And toward him angels from high Heav'n descend.

　　Aoi.

　　Beneath a pine Rollánd doth lie, and looks

　　Toward Spain. He broods on many things of yore:

　　On all the lands he conquered, on sweet France,

　　On all his kinsmen, on great Carle his lord

　　Who nurtured him;—he sighs, nor can restrain

　　His tears, but cannot yet himself forget;

　　Recalls his sins, and for the grace of God

　　He prays: "Our Father, never yet untrue,

　　Who Saint-Lazare raised from the dead, and saved

　　Thy Daniel from the lions' claws,—oh, free

　　My soul from peril, from my whole life's sins!"

　　His right hand glove he offered up to God;

　　Saint Gabriel took the glove.—With head reclined

　　Upon his arm, with hands devoutly joined

　　He breathed his last. God sent his cherubim,

　　Saint-Raphael, Saint Michiel del Peril.

　　Together with them Gabriel came. All bring

　　The soul of Count Rollánd to Paradise.

　　Aoi.

　　Rabillon's Translation National Epics